


Wish on the Moon

by anneapocalypse



Category: Fallout (Video Games), Fallout 3
Genre: Dancing, F/M, Fluff, Ghouls, Megaton
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-19
Updated: 2014-11-19
Packaged: 2018-02-26 07:39:14
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 693
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2643629
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/anneapocalypse/pseuds/anneapocalypse
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There's nothing like the simple comfort of coming home to the one you love at the end of the day.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Wish on the Moon

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the Fallout Kink Meme.

She doesn't get in until well after close. The moon is down, and the last few drunks have already staggered off to the common house as she follows a string of flickering yellow lights, plain features obscured by the wide brim of a hat. Up the creaking walkway she comes, finally, to the saloon perched high at the crater's edge. Gretchen Rollins, "the vault kid" they still call her, though the only sign of her former life she still wears on her person is the device strapped to her arm, emitting a green glow. The years outside have warmed up her complexion a bit, though in the wrong light her skin still takes on a somewhat sickly hue.  
  
The cluster of chimes hanging from the door jangles as it opens, and Gob looks up from his sweeping. The bar is clean, wiped down so it almost gleams under the low light, almost, the dull shine of 200-year formica. She pauses to stomp the dust off her boots before stepping in and letting the door close behind her, slowly so it doesn't bang against the crooked frame.  
  
"How'd it go?" Gob rasps, straightening up and moving toward the bar to turn down the radio.  
  
"Well enough." Gret takes off her hat and shrugs out of her duster, draping it over one arm. "Trouble on the routes. What else is new. They'll handle it. Got to see Diego. He was inducted last week."  
  
"They ask you to stay?" Gob says gruffly.  
  
"'Course. Always do." She sits on the edge of a barstool, pack spread open across her sturdy thighs as she rifles through it. "Told 'em what I tell 'em. Got a home here."  
  
Gob resumes his methodical sweeping. "Dunno what would come to this town without you."  
  
Gret's eyes drop to the coat slung over her arm, and the weathered copper star pinned to it. Outside of the town there's a similar shape carved into a piece of stone under the inscription  _Lucas Wilder Simms. Sheriff, Father, Friend._  No other adornments. The raiders would just take them.  
  
She rubs a blunt finger over the star, nearly smooth from years of wear. “You know it’s not just that."

The dust and grime of a day’s worth of wasteland travelers and ever-thirsty locals always accumulates a bigger pile than you think it will. Gob makes a point of sweeping every night. Besides keeping the dirt at bay, it’s his down time. Moriarty never closed the place, but Gob doesn’t mind sacrificing the few caps the all-nighters would toss his way for a few hours’ peace before dawn. Besides, there’s some kind of comfort in last call, in _you ain’t gotta go home but you gotta get on out of here_ , in shutting down and resetting for the next day.  
  
Gob’s moved to the back room, aiming his dirt pile for the back door, and nudging it open with the toe of his boot he sweeps the pile out into the night. When he returns, Gret’s still at the bar. She thumbs the knob on the old radio, and the room fills again with old world piano and the warm tones of Lady Day.  _Crazy he calls me… sure, I’m crazy..._  
  
Gret swings off the stool. In a moment she’s pulling Gob out to the floor. “You know I’m no dancer,” Gob grunts, though a faint smile tugs at the uneven line of his mouth.  
  
“Me either.” Gret shrugs, settling a palm into lead position beneath her partner’s shoulderblade. Gob’s rough hand comes to rest at her shoulder. She pulls him a little closer, swaying in time.   
  
“‘Least you had lessons.”  
  
“Never was much good.” Scuffed boots bump toes on the freshly swept floorboards. Gret hides a rare smile against the shoulder of Gob’s leather vest, but he sees it anyway, and holds her a little closer as they shuffle in a slow circle over the floor. The song ends, and another begins with fresh, easy strains of brass. Gret hums, a little off-key, next to Gob’s ear, and he can’t help the grin that creeps across his ruined face.   
  
 _And you’ll have your happy, happy times…_


End file.
